47 - The Writing on the...

The eyes boldly meeting his were evergreen dark with the shadows of what he strongly suspected was hurt.  She wouldn’t shrivel up and cry like a little girl.  Sheridan had too much pride for that, but when you added in the defensive way that she held her leg to her chest…  There was no doubt she was smarting from his ‘innocent’ question. 

Jon fucking hated it. 

In a rare moment of weakness, he’d let himself be bullied into pursuing the ‘obvious’ source of this leak.  The two people in the world that had jointly comprised his other half for the past quarter of a century were determined that Sheridan was at fault, and they’d practically demanded her head on a platter.

And you came over here to give it to ‘em.

God help him, he had.  Despite the fact that, deep down in his bones, he’d known it wasn’t true.  From the first minute Richie suggested it, he couldn’t fathom that kind of betrayal from this woman.  No, he hadn’t known her all that long, but there were certain ways in which she was so much like him.  His best qualities – including integrity – were mirrored in her.

With her gently thrown gauntlet, “Now… is that enough?” echoing in his ears, Jon pushed all the bullshit aside.  He was going to make this decision the same way he always made all of the important judgment calls – he trusted his gut.

“It’s enough, Kitten.”

Relief didn’t flood her features.  Righteous indignation didn’t bubble out with a hearty slap to his face.  Her expression and posture didn’t change at all, as a matter of fact.  Evergreen eyes were still shadowed.  Guarded.  As though she were waiting for another undeserved accusation to be hurled her way. 

It didn’t make a tinker’s damn what anybody else thought.  That reaction was enough to tell him his gut was right on the money.  Again. 

And that he was an insensitive jackass.  Again.

He would make it right, but he wasn’t going to grovel.

Sneaking his hand across the short expanse of cushion that separated them, he curled his fingers around her ankle and walked them up the inside of her baggy pant leg until he found bare skin.  She stiffened against the touch, but it didn’t deter his thumb from softly petting the side of her calf.  “You think you could help me figure out how this happened?”

Cosmetically dark, sooty lashes blinked once.  Sheridan remained quietly reserved when answering the question with a question of her own.  “Are you staying for dinner?”

Dinner.  Shit.

“I can’t.  I’m supposed to be picking up dinner for the kids,” Jon apologized with genuine regret, continuing his gentle ministrations on her calf until the set of her shoulders softened the tiniest bit.  “I’ll call you tonight after the younger kids are in bed.  Okay?”

“Sure.”  She eased her leg away and let it slide to the floor, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she gracefully rose to her feet.  “I’ll probably order something in myself, and then do my gift wrapping.”

Jon watched her fiddle with the elegantly printed tubes of paper on the dining table.  She pointlessly tried to straighten them when they were already aligned with military precision. 

He hated like hell that he couldn’t stay.  That he didn’t have time to spend with her until ‘they’ were back to the same place they’d been before he walked into her apartment this evening.  From his perspective, that place was bordering on the verge of something special, and he hoped this…  stupidity hadn’t screwed that up.

“Kitten?  Are we okay?” 

Lifting her face, she smiled absently when he sidled up beside her, capturing her hands and slowly pivoting her.  The hairy black socks she wore slipped easily on the wood floor until she faced him, distant eyes gradually coming into focus.

“Jon, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”  He made a move to brush over the arch of her cheek with his knuckles, but she drew back.  Just enough to let him know she was still stung.  He let the rejected hand fall to his side without comment.

“When you speak to Richie, or Dorothea, again… and they insist that it has to be my fault, because there’s no one else…   Are we going to revisit this scene?”

“No.”  Jon spoke in a clear and definitive voice, without hesitation.  The hand that still held hers wrapped itself a little tighter.  “You said you didn’t, and that’s the end of it.” 

“You’re sure?  Because I don’t want to be bounced up and down like a yo-yo in our relationship, worrying that you’re going to change your mind and turn on me again.  If you need to leave, please do it now.”

He didn’t want to leave at all, not until he could fix this and she knew, without question, that he was on her side.  But that wasn’t a luxury he had tonight.  It was one of the few times in his life he wished he didn’t have to take care of his children.

Dammit, I don’t have time to make this right.

Jon scrabbled for a way to put a quick, temporary Band-Aid on the situation.  Even though they were limited on time, he didn’t want to leave her still feeling  hurt and  uncertain about them.

Because, if there was anything good to come out of this mess, it was his renewed certainty that he wanted a long-term relationship with Sheridan.  She hadn’t burst into tears, she hadn’t thrown a screaming fit and called him everything but a white man...  and she hadn’t been responsible for the leak.  He knew that without a doubt.

If he only had that black velvet box from Piaget in his pocket, this would be so much easier.  Glancing at the dining table’s surface, he struck upon an idea that might suffice until Christmas.

“You told me this weekend that you were mine.  Did you mean it?”   

Her answer was slow to come, but it was firm and sure when it did.  “Yes.  Do you regret making me?”

Maintaining a firm grip on her hand, so she wouldn’t withdraw it, Jon bent at the waist and leaned toward the table to snag the black Sharpie that was lying there.   He stuck the capped end between his teeth, leaving it to dangle there while he pushed the black velour sleeve up to the middle of her forearm.  When the inside of her wrist had been exposed, he bit down on the marker cap and pulled the writing end free.  

“What are you doing?”  Flicking his eyes up to her face, Jon saw that it was crinkled with confusion.  She squirmed in a feeble effort to reclaim her wrist.

He spat the cap in the direction of the rolls of wrapping paper, bringing the felt tip to hover over the delicate veins that shone blue under the translucency of her skin.  “Marking you as mine.”

Taking more time and care than he usually did, he deliberately scrawled his signature – not his autograph – across her wrist.  It was awkward since he didn’t normally write so small, but he wanted it to fit in the width of her arm.  With an extra loopy ‘H’ in ‘John’ and a matching ‘G’ loop in ‘Bongiovi’, he succeeded and gingerly dotted each ‘I’ so as not to stab her. 

He slowly lifted her wrist, bending his head over it.  Shaping his mouth into a small oval, Jon blew a gentle puff of air across the ink-darkened flesh.    He watched her carefully from beneath hooded lids, and slow, second puff further ensured that the marking wouldn’t smudge. 

She was staring at him and breathing through slightly parted lips.  Heated green eyes were free of any shadows.  The only thing lurking in the lightened shade of moss was an expression he’d gotten quite adept at interpreting – the first stirrings of arousal.

We’re still good.

Relieved at the confirmation, Jon pressed his lips over the poor man’s tattoo until he felt her pulse throbbing an uneven rhythem against them.  Only then did he move to stand upright.  It could easily be covered by a wide bracelet or watch band, if she wanted, but it wasn’t going anywhere for a while. 

Maintaining eye-contact, he needlessly murmured, “That’s permanent marker.”

“Permanent marker isn’t permanent on skin,” she returned on a near-whisper.

With a gentle tug on the wrist that now bore his name, he settled it into the small of his back.  It left her arm curved around his waist and Jon completed the circle by hooking his wrists behind her – careful to point the marker away from her shirt. 

“It’ll do for now.  You’re mine, Sheridan.  That’s your proof, whenever you need it.  I protect what is mine, and I won’t tolerate your name in the same sentence as this shit again.”  He was as sincere as he knew how to be, and he hoped she got that.  Questioningly, he lifted his brow.  “Do you understand me?  Do you believe me?”

Her free hand snaked up his chest until it could comfortably cradle his jaw.  Jon turned his face into the palm, pressing another kiss there as she said simply, “Yes.”    

Thirty minutes later, after bidding Jon good-bye with their only proper kiss today, Sheridan was still sitting on the sofa, staring at her phone.  Not a single gift had been wrapped.  Not a single thing had even been taken from the bags in the closet.  Everything she needed to do sat untouched while she wrestled with her conscience, undecided as to what to do. 

There was no question of what she wanted to do, but was it ethical?  Did she have the right?  And would it matter in the long run?  Had the (irreparable) damage already been done?

You’re neck deep in this now. Ethical or not, you know you have to.  Now own the decision and do it.

Snatch the iPhone up and seeking out the recently added contact information, she tapped the button before she could change her mind.  She took a deep breath, tucking her legs under her while she waited for the call to go through. 

“Hello?”

Sheridan put on a bright smile, as though the caller could see it and greeted her with all the sunshine she could pipe into her voice.  “Hi, Bridget! It’s Sheridan.  I hate to impose upon you again, especially so soon after the first time, but I have a really big favor to ask.  Huge, in fact…”

Those of you who read Focused on You may be expecting this....
We deeply regret having to inform you that this story is taking a BRIEF hiatus.  Brief, as in one week.  Life is crazy right now and we are writing just to make deadline rather than crafting a story worthy of your loyalty.  That's not what we want this to be.  Rest assured that we are not taking a break from actual writing, but we need just a bit of time to get our collaborative efforts back on the same track.  We'll get caught back up and be back to twice a week again, promise!

If we had our choice, we would rather not do this, but right now it doesn't seem to be avoidable.  We can only hope you understand and realize you're going to reap the benefits. Thank you for your continued support, comments and readership!!!

♥blush  & Audra

Next posting:  Monday, February 4.